


blue masquerade

by northly



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Eventual Stockholm Syndrome, Everyone Loves Iwa-chan, IwaOi Horror Week, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Kissing, Vampire Hunters, it's not sex but it may as well be yknow?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 19:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northly/pseuds/northly
Summary: A villain knows his heroes. And Oikawa's coven needs a new bloodbag.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent OiIwa vampire AU for the last day of Iwaoi Horror Week. also, Happy Halloween !

A meeting:

Footsteps sound on the rotting pier. The clack of wooden sandals, punctuated by the soft lapping of the lake's dark water. The young man -- boy, really -- snaps his head around, hand at the dagger at his waist, but the small figure in the fog poses no threat to one such as him.

“Apologies. Did I disturb you?”

“A little.” is the curt answer.

The man smiles. Eyes meet, dark to darker. The mist thins away to reveal, and the boy stares, lips parted. Clean bones and white skin in diluted light; a faded teal yukata opened just enough to expose the suggestion of sharp clavicles. It’s quite the sight, for thirteen-year-old eyes.

“I didn’t think anyone knew of this place. It’s off-site. Away from the clan grounds.”

The boy shifts. “I can go, if you want.”

“Why should you? You were here first.”

He moves closer.

“Fine, then.”

The man leans against the rotting post and turns his head, shakes out the soft rattle in the back of his throat, one that could signal illness or melancholy. Either could have accounted for his blighted gaze, his sunken eyes. Something stirs inside the boy. Soft, and swiftly beating.

“May I ask — what is your name?”

“No need. You’ll know soon enough… Akira-kun.”

Too close.

* * *

“So this is the state of the hunter’s society.” Matsukawa remarks. At their feet struggle thirty men and women in various stages of expiring, their throats slit, fingers scrabbling for broken blades. “It’s fallen quite a ways, hasn’t it?”

“That’s only in these southern regions. They’ve been left unattended for so long, we’ve become mere superstitions.” Oikawa says. “There’s a reason I relocated us here, don’t forget.”

Matsukawa glances at him. “_He’s_ not here.”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Do you think he’s going to follow us this far?”

Oikawa bends down, lazily tilts up the chin of the man dying closest to him. The throaty gurgle of blood makes him tilt his head appraisingly before he picks up the body, hoisting it easily in his arms.

“It bothers me that you’re not answering.” Matsukawa says mildly. ”You’re planning something. Would you mind telling me before you drag us into the thick of it?”

Oikawa purses his lips. “Call it an experiment in getting the most for the least amount of effort. “

“And the test subject?”

“You have to recognise an act of providence when it stares you in the face, my dear Issei. Now pick something out. We have mouths to feed.”

* * *

_He_ arrives three weeks later, actually, as if blown in on the autumn wind. Oikawa berates himself for not seeing him coming, though it’s with a vicious sort of amusement— apparently, he’s not too old to be taken by surprise.

“Where’s Kunimi?” Iwaizumi growls, pinning him down. The glint of hate in those familiar green — gorgeous -- eyes reflect off the twin blades of steel he’s put through under Oikawa’s collarbones. “What have you done with him?”

Oikawa laughs, spraying blood onto Iwaizumi’s robes. “Why don’t you guess? If you’re right, I’ll let him go.” A grin, just for Iwa-chan. “I’ll let them _all_ go.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen, and then he twists the blades, and Oikawa’s laugh turns into his own snarl of pain. There’s dead man’s blood running down the grooves built specifically for this purpose, and Oikawa howls as it enters him, bringing with it its taint and paralysis. This is what it feels like: a sudden burst of cold in your chest that spirals up and up, and an unpleasantly oily aftertaste, not unlike biting in a greasy morsel. It’s no wonder their bodies react in repulsion; it’s an incisory invasion, a fine knife along the skin, even in this crude form.

“How many?” Iwaizumi demands, digging in deeper. This close, Oikawa can see him trying to mask the pain and helplessness with fury, trying to bandage up the knowledge that he was too late. But the guilt seeps through— it always does. “What are you trying to do, Oikawa?!”

“Why don’t you come see for yourself, Hajime? I’ve been extending the invitation for years now.”

A scream splits the air, somewhere behind Iwaizumi. He jerks, lifting his eyes toward the sound and Oikawa thrashes, swipes with one hand. A spurt of blood arcs up from his torso where Iwaizumi had withdrawn one of his blades; if Iwaizumi hadn’t leapt back, his guts would have spilt out over the forest floor. Still, blood spills freely onto red leaves, blending in perfectly. Oikawa’s mouth waters at the smell.

“Mattsun!” he calls out instead. “Took you long enough.” He grips the remaining blade pinning him, trying to tug it out. All it does it slice his numb hands, making them even more slippery.

Several meters away, the one called Hanamaki is supporting a youth, one of their younger recruits, calling for Iwaizumi to help him. From the smell and the whimpering, it looks like Matsukawa had broken the recruit’s leg in two places.

“Iwaizumi! We have to go!”

The hunter looks back at him, torn between his prisoner and his comrade. Oikawa laughs openly, because there’s no choice, not really.

Iwaizumi spits at him. “I’m coming back for you.”

“I’m counting on it,” he mouths back.

* * *

In the end, Iwaizumi comes back for all of them.

Seven of the missing children are huddled together, a small tight circle that stank of fear. Oikawa peels one from the group and sends it across the river with Matsukawa as a show of good faith. It runs crying to its parents, burying its tear-streaked face in their necks, sniffing loudly. Oikawa’s mouth widens in a smile at the sight.

The exchange goes smoothly. Hanamaki’s face is thunderous, his fingers white and trembling on the hilt of his katana. When it comes to the second-to-last child, he grabs Iwaizumi’s hand beseechingly. But Iwaizumi shakes him off.

“Kunimi isn’t here. I need to find him, Takahiro.”

“Fuck. _Fuck._” Hanamaki pulls him into a tight hug. “We’ll join you, as soon as we can.”

On their side of the river, Matsukawa pulls the child onto the raft. Across the way, Iwaizumi steps onto another. Their timing is perfect; when Iwaizumi steps onto shore by Oikawa’s side, Matsukawa has deposited the child in the shallows and started making his way back.

Oikawa glances at Iwaizumi, who is glaring back at him, arms crossed. Across the river are the reunited villagers and the rest of Iwaizumi’s clan. Silent and furious hunters who could only look on as Oikawa took their best, most beloved, away.

“Well?” Iwaizumi asks, unafraid.

“Now we return home,” Oikawa says smoothly, marvelling at how such a cold gaze could make him feel so heated. “Come on. Kunimi-chan’s alive, you know."

* * *

The reunion between the hunters is equally heartwarming.

“Kunimi!” Iwaizumi exclaims, emotion making his voice hoarse. He gathers the boy into a rough hug. Kunimi winces at the hard press of Iwaizumi’s sheathed weapons against his body. “You’re okay. It’s all right, I’m here now.”

He stands up, one hand alighting on his katana while the other pushes the boy behind him. Kunimi groans, presses his face against Iwaizumi’s warm side.

Matsukawa shifts at the sound of the drawn blade, but Oikawa doesn’t even flinch. He picks at the dried blood under his nails.

“Well?” he echoes. “What are you going to do now, Hajime?”

“I’m leaving the same way I came,” Iwaizumi informs him with steely determination. “And killing any of you who try to stop me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Oikawa stands up, Matsukawa not far behind. Iwaizumi’s gaze flickers between the two of them, and Oikawa knows what he’s thinking: the odds are bad, but they’ve been worse. It’s because of him that Oikawa’s coven has been diminished to such a lowly number, after all.

“Iwaizumi-san?” Kunimi tugs at his free wrist, sliding the sleeve up and exposing skin. “I’m hungry.”

“I know. We’ll be out of here soon.”

He begins moving forward, but a weight on his arm pulls him back.

“Kunimi? What are you—“

The boy _bites_, ripping his wrist wide open. Fresh blood flows and Iwaizumi yells, trying to shake the baby monster latched onto his wrist with inhuman strength, the sounds of sucking filling the room.

Matsukawa is by his side, now. Too fast for any human eye to follow, he wrenches Iwaizumi’s other wrist and the blade falls with a clatter. Matsukawa kicks it away into the darkness.

Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi’s hair back, baring his throat. He struggles, but the glint of bright eyes and sharper teeth fill his vision as he succumbs to the natural paralytic in Kunimi's saliva.

“You’re not going anywhere, Hajime. Not anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

It easily becomes their routine. He spends as much time as Oikawa allows with his old mentor, and Kunimi had tried to keep his hands to himself— but after awhile the hunger became too much. There is no source of light for him to cast shadows when he eases into the room, which is just as well. When he reaches out with soft fingers to touch, he knows they are cold. The figure stirs, chains clinking.

“Kunimi.” The voice flat, rough from disuse.

“I’m fourteen today.” he says. “Is that a good age to be, Iwaizumi-san?”

“Being young is generally good. You’re on the brink. In the moment.”

“Nothing about me is good anymore.”

Being on the brink also means teetering on the edge of a fall. He takes the key and unfastens one of Iwaizumi’s arms, lowers it down. It’s stiff and unwieldy, and Kunimi feels the man wince. He casts red-rimmed eyes over him, taking in the multiple unhealed bites marking the mottled wrist. The wounds aren’t new but the flesh around them stayed ragged, black oozing potholes surrounded by raised white flesh. The bruises spread up of the insides of Iwaizumi’s arms, red lines signifying the vampire’s infection marching towards his heart.

He lowers his lips to the most recent bite on Iwaizumi’s wrist, already heady with the scent of blood.

“I’m sorry.” he breathes.

“It’s all right. It’s all right, Kunimi.”

He shuts his eyes and pretends not to feel Iwaizumi’s fingers twitch when he closes his lips around the old wound and digs it open with his teeth. Fresh warmth spurts onto his tongue and he drinks, new strength sliding down his throat.

* * *

In the morning:

“You smell like him.”

Kunimi eyes the child pouting at him, eyes narrow. Standard procedure when a stray follows you home is to drown the whelp, but that would not be in line with Oikawa-san’s personal protocol. The coven still needs growing, after all.

He pushes past the small figure. “Go away, Kageyama.” To his annoyance, the brat pads alongside him doggedly.

“I want to smell like him, too! Everyone else does.”

“Then go.” Kunimi tosses him the key, not caring that it smacks off the child’s forehead. “Take what you want.”

Kageyama scrambles after him, key clutched in his hands. “But he won’t let me.” The hurt obvious in his face. “I can’t get close to him unless Oikawa-san or Matsukawa-san are there.”

Kunimi knows. Bloodbags weren’t meant to be permanent fixtures, but Oikawa-san makes his rules, sets his own traditions. So they treat Iwaizumi like the precious, finite commodity he is— they take care of him, his needs, and take care never to over-indulge.

This also means that Iwaizumi retains a semblance of his strength, and Kunimi visits him alone because Iwaizumi is pliant only for him. Each time any of the others go to him to feed, he fights until he’s subdued, and Kunimi always puts his hands over his ears, fingernails digging tightly into his scalp, until the hallways are quiet once more.

Iwaizumi makes an exception for him only because the guilt gnawing at his heart can’t possibly hurt worse than Kunimi doing so at his wrist.

“It’s not fair!” Kageyama is saying.

_No, it isn’t_, Kunimi thinks. “I’m not helping you.”

“Why not?”

Kunimi whirls around. “_Because_, if you die, the less Iwaizumi-san has to give.”

“Now, now. That isn’t any way to treat your little brother, Kunimi.”

The shadows melt into the form of Matsukawa, stepping out from the darkness. He’s drenched in rain, ankles damp, wiping his knuckles on his coat. His pale eyes look suffocated, like a water stain on thick paper, undoable and spreading with no end. Kageyama’s own too-wide eyes brighten up.

“Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Kageyama.” He holds out a thin, spidery hand. “I’m hungry too. Let’s go visit Iwaizumi-san together.”

Kunimi bites his tongue. _He’s not my brother_, he wants to scream as Kageyama bounces past him and towards Matsukawa. _None of you are my family._

Matsukawa isn’t unkind. In fact, Kunimi vastly prefers him to Oikawa. But the sight of the pair of them, standing in the soft light of dawn, makes him sick.

“I’m going to bed.”

He reaches his own room, and slams the door shut.

* * *

The permanent ink etched into Iwaizumi’s chest prevents any of them afflicting his mind with their own, but they have their own ways of keeping him placid. Kageyama is a fast learner, and his strength grew with his appetite as summer eased into fall once more.

In front of them, Iwaizumi’s tired, furious expression eases, but without relief. Kageyama runs his thumb softly over his lips in wonderment, as though trying to recapture the fleeting connection of a moment before. His blue eyes are too bright, glassy and drugged with untold want. He cradles the hunter’s face in his hands, skirting the border of intimacy.

“Kageyama.” Matsukawa says, softly reminding him.

Kageyama bites his lip, then nods in submission. Only Oikawa is allowed to touch Iwaizumi in certain ways. Kageyama’s been toeing that line, getting on Oikawa’s nerves more and more lately, but for now he still defers to that authority, and Matsukawa isn’t the sort to turn Oikawa’s attention onto little transgressions.

They lay Iwaizumi down between them, leaning him back against Kageyama’s chest while Matsukawa moves between his legs. Iwaizumi shudders, currents of resistance streaking up his spine, but Kageyama tilts Iwaizumi's head back and leaks more saliva between his lips.

The weak, oaky light of the lamp lights the edges of Iwaizumi’s face, short dark lashes, the bow of his mouth. The messy snarl, strong jaw. If there is such exquisiteness in the world to be had then it _must_ be had— they must close their hands around its tender neck and squeeze it dry, until nothing is left but a husk, a beautifully shaped emptiness.

Matsukawa presses open Iwaizumi’s thighs, admiring the heavily mottled canvas of blue, black, purple. Above him, Kageyama is working Iwaizumi’s wrist, soft smacking noises filling the air.

Iwaizumi makes a soft, muted noise. His thighs jerk around Matsukawa’s head as teeth sink in.

They pull him close, opening him up, each with his own tenderness. In exchange for his essence, they leave on him their gratitude, their love.

* * *

But no one loves him more than Oikawa.

Iwaizumi’s bare torso glows a cool blue in the dark. He arches tightly under Oikawa’s hand, and his skin is contrarily warm and smooth, the only source of heat in the entire room. His mouth gapes open, vulnerable and raw, bottom lip bleeding from deep teeth marks. A heart beating in an electric flurry, furious with life.

“Kill me.” he says vehemently. “_Kill me._”

“I will not,” Oikawa whispers, and carefully fits his teeth into the holes he’d carved out for himself in Iwaizumi’s neck, months ago.

He tastes Iwaizumi himself, his skin, while Iwaizumi’s fingers scrabble at his back and his throat works down stifled moans. At this level of dependency, hands and lips and tongues are not enough for Oikawa, and he coils around Iwaizumi, the hunter’s open robes fanned out in disarray underneath his back, the frigid air cold on his bared skin.

Oikawa quirks the corner of his mouth. “Stay with me, now.” he says, and nudges Iwaizumi’s ruined throat, drawing from his savaged lips a choked gasp. Everything about Iwaizumi is smooth and sleek and lissome, streamlined for ease of motion and brimming with hard-earned life. He’s made of it, and his body spills secrets his mind would have preferred to keep. Oikawa pockets them, runs sharp nails across the slants of Iwaizumi’s hipbones, watching the flush gradually drain from his chest, his cheekbones.

Curled up against Oikawa afterward, sore and limp, eyes dull while Oikawa smooths over sweat-damp hair and places daisy-chains of kisses along his forehead.

“There,” Oikawa says, sliding down next to him under the covers and running his hands over warm ribs. “Now you can smell like me all the time.”


End file.
